My body reacted to his words in opposition to my mind. While my skin flushed and heat pooled low in my belly, I despised him for throwing me away and then losing all faith in me. For talking to me like this. And that war between my physical desire and my emotions made me hate him even more. I wanted to tear him up.
“Does he know how you like it?” His voice was thick now, hoarse, and he leaned the length of his strong body into mine, pushing me into the machines at my back. I could feel him. Throbbing. Hard. My breath skittered and my fingers curled into the cotton fabric of his T-shirt. “Does he know sweet, shy, Jane Doe loves a good, hard fucking as much as gentle lovemaking? That when the mood takes you, you like to be tied up, held down …” Jamie trailed his lips across my flushed cheek and brushed them against my mouth. “And fucked until you scream?”
Memories assailed me. Memories of our youthful adventures in sex. How together, we were open to anything. How exciting it had been to explore that side of ourselves with someone who made us feel safe and loved.
“Does he know you like to be fucked in public places?”
I shivered, remembering the hottest sex we ever had in a restroom at the theater.
“Does he hold you all night long, just the way you like?” Jamie trailed his fingertips along my collarbone, gentle, caressing. Almost loving. “Does he keep his dick buried inside you while you sleep like I did? How many nights did you want that from me? How you needed me to stay inside you, connected.”
Tears burned in my throat.
I’d been desperate for him. Wanted him to never leave me. To hold me always.
No one had held me in such a long time. Not like that.
Not since him.
I glared at his throat, half of me wanting to lick it and the other to rip it out with my teeth.
“Nothing to say?” He pressed a soft kiss to the side of my neck, one hand sliding down the curve of my waist to rest on my hip. He squeezed it. “Huh?”
Did it hurt him to be near me like it hurt me to be near him?
Was this causing him pain, or did he only find pleasure in trying to humiliate me, trying to make me feel guilty about Asher?
The dark ugliness he woke in me spread upward, searching for release. I turned my head toward his ear and whispered, “He likes it when I cry out his name.” I pressed a kiss to his jaw and curled my hand around the wrist of his hand resting on my hip. My nails dug into his skin as I undulated against his hard body. “Asher,” I groaned and felt Jamie stiffen. “Oh, Asher, yes, harder … Oh, Asher, I love you.”
Jamie slammed his hand hard against the dryer beside my head, and I flinched. He glared balefully down at me, hatred pouring out of him.
Yeah, pal, the feeling is mutual.
He bared his teeth before he opened his mouth to speak and then snapped it shut. Pushing off the dryer and out of my space, the tension in my body deflated a little as Jamie retreated. Then he chuckled. A harsh, unhappy sound. His expression was mock impressed, his voice hoarse as he said, “Baby Doe knows how to play the game. Good.” Malice glittered in his eyes. “Wouldn’t want you to make this easy for me.”
Turning on his heel, he strode out of the laundry room and called over his shoulder, “See you soon, neighbor.”
It was a threat.
Shuddering, indignation built inside me.
When Jamie broke up with me in that letter, I thought I’d never get over it. If it hadn’t been for my friend Cassie’s no-nonsense approach to seeing me through my heartache—i.e. refusing to let me lie in a dark room alone for months like I wanted to—I might never have moved on.
But I’d gotten on with my life because there was no other option.
It occurred to me, despite how shaken I was by his presence, I wasn’t panicking. I wasn’t anxious. No. I felt like fighting.
I’d been dealt so many blows in my twenty-six years on this planet, I’d developed an undetectable armor. People didn’t realize it even existed until they tried to push me too far.
Did Jamie really think I would just sit back and let him come